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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24837115">Feverish Remedy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonbonChocolat/pseuds/BonbonChocolat'>BonbonChocolat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Katekyou Hitman Reborn!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:20:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24837115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonbonChocolat/pseuds/BonbonChocolat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have swallowed those sleeping pills a long time ago.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Feverish Remedy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Messy  white  sheets  crumple  underneath  his restless   figure,    though   still   gentle   on   his golden-tinted  skin. His honey eyes move  high, glancing   at   the   coffee-colored   ceiling,   like hollow  sockets ready to fall from its sphere  of container.  He glances abnormally long,  steady and  empty. An ugly stare which does not  shift, somehow unearthly if someone illustrates it.</p><p>His  sight blurs the distinct lines, making  them all  seem fuzzy and peculiar. Takeshi recoils  in surprise,  for a moment. His head aches,  beats and  beats his thoughts.  He tries to  remember the  drawn  boundaries of  goodness — what  is 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑. . . ?  The  black-haired  mafioso  does  not know,  unable  to  recall  the  roots  of  kindness  only the unclear sentiment of it: soft and bright. It  tears  him. It  curses  him. It  stabs  him. And everything feels like heated swords, a pleasant thrust  of blades, beautifully painful.  With  hilts kindled  in reddish orange fire,  sides  withering to gray ashes: 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔, and 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 again. </p><p>𝑀𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝐴𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑙𝑒. 𝑆𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠. 𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑙𝑒.</p><p>Breathless,   he  processes  a  nasty  gasp.   He  suffocates  on  his  own respiration as  if  he  is stopping  himself  from  gulping a  taste  of  air, knowing  the delirium he is, he would  definitely attempt  to  do foolish actions though  dying  in that  way seems to be a mundane  method.  He prefers  to  attain an end that  would  leave  him permanently  crippled and crooked,  a palate  of sour   expiration  and  unsweetened  decay.   At least,  a lawful sentence perfect for his  warped  set of 𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚 subconscious. Revolting.</p><p>He  thinks of 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 and 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠. A memory of  his gorgeous mother harasses him. Her silly myths  causes him to  imagine  foul  nightmares of the dead:   𝒉𝒆𝒓.  The   lingering  phrases   of   fiction bothers   him.  She  would  always   caress   his spiky   hair,  and  then  slip   beneath   the   silky covers  beside  him. His mother  carefully  tells mysterious   stories,  sometimes  plain   fables. She would ask him questions regarding riddles for  growing  children.  Takeshi  would  give  his best  and  answer most of them  correctly.  And she would reward him with a kiss on his cheek.  He loves her, he loves her even after seeing the aftermath  of a successful  assassination.  The kisses on his visage are no longer lit. 𝑀𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑦, 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦: 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑.  ( He  continues to  love her   after  her  head  rolls  on  their   floor.   Her slayer  smiles at him during the coldness. It  is not  creepy, he  murmurs  to  his  shark  stuffed toy.  The  killer  is  not  mocking  him, all is well. The   stranger   picks  up  her   lifeless   corpse, her  happy  head is dangling on  the  assassin's hand  like  a  golden  medal  praising  the  killer. The unknown man finally leaves.  Takeshi does not sleep that day. ) </p><p>Along   the  thread  of  𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠,  he  does   not know  where  to  start:  aimless.   He  does  not want  to  saunter  barefoot  once  more. Mirrors  of  his failures isolate him. Takeshi steps  back,  frightened   by   the   consequences.   Everyone owns  a  𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚,  so does he. Is  it  necessary  to begin  again  when  he has  already  obtained  a pathetic   culmination  of  his  aim. . .?  Does   it remain  to  be important to his  heart. . .? There  is no reason to begin a dream,  to begin a fresh downfall. Perhaps, he would  receive  a  broken eager  ego similar to his useless  arm.  Takeshi lets go of the opportunity to shatter.  A guise to  hide   his   incompetence.   𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚  𝒔𝒂𝒚:  𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆   𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒀𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒐. 𝑨 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. Several days, he does not look at himself. </p><p>“Do you want to undress them, little boy. . .?”  A sweet  whisper,   𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑  𝑎𝑛𝑑  𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑,  unfamiliar. He likes  the  mention of the innocent  name.  After all,  he  loves  being  a  child,  he  loves  holding onto  his discarded youth.  Takeshi misses  the  sunny  smiles  that  belong to him, but  he  is  a pouring  rain  and  the burst of  water  does  not dip  in joy.  When does the rain become  happy?   Back  when it simply pitter-patters on  his  roof, soothing  him during times of loneliness.  Now, it  destroys his glassy windows, the path to  his peace,  forcefully stolen and it  sabotages  him. Takeshi  wants  to scream,  and his  voice  dies along  with his sticks of homely  sanctuary.  He waits  for  it  to  stop, he waits  until  he  can  no longer  recover  from  the  ruins.  And  his  baby fingers  affectionately  treasure the  pebbles  of his former house,  holding them until his hands are  out  of  love:  𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠. Takeshi  compresses his quivering lips, a blue shirt pressing onto his mouth  which  possesses a minty  fragrance  to forcibly silence his weeping  spirit so his 𝑑𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑎  does not take notice of him.  His  droplets  of  tears  leak to head downwards  towards  the tiny  rocks,  though he knows that his cries  will never  replace  his welcoming home.  Soon,  he completely surrenders hope. </p><p>“They look disgusting. Hide them.”  𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑦  𝑖𝑠  𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙. Such harshness continues to  kill  him. He  eyes  his  white  bandages. The longer he thinks of the wounds that lie beneath them  increases his immense  anxiety. 𝑀𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑠. 𝑀𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑠  devour  his  skin,  slick  licks  of  sharp teeth   claw  him.   Yellow  worm-like   creatures feast  on  him  as if he is a  measly  delicacy  to gobble. Higher, they climb on the slices caused by  steel. Slimy, a  slipping  texture  that  makes him   feel  nausea: a  peerless  degree  of   pure horror.  They  mutter:  𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟  𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟  𝑖𝑠  𝑠𝑜  𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠. 𝑊𝑒   𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙   𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑒.  𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒  𝑢𝑠   𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑢𝑒   𝑦𝑜𝑢.  By impulse,  his  functioning hand reaches for  his layered  arm, hastily  burying his  nails. Vile  red  wets  the  whiteness,   worsening  the  bleeding slashes. Although  it  is fine, Takeshi  does  not ponder  on his self-produced cuts,  considering it  to  be a waste of energy. He  suppresses  his hyperventilation   so  he  would  not  die  in   his room  of  all places he possibly  could.  At  last, the image of ravenous maggots dissipates.</p><p>“Will someone accept those. . .? Too dirty.” 𝑆𝑒𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟  𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒.  He   knows  that  he  is   filthy.  He cannot wash the persistent rubbish,  he cannot scrub   the  specks  of  dust.  The   black-haired male  desires  to peel his spoiled covers  like  a snake  shedding  its  coat though  it  would  not make  him  cleaner.  Takeshi  will  always  be  a mess  with  no one to tidy him  up. Anger  does not  fuel  him.   Anger  is  not  for  the  Rain,   he hopes  it  is  for  him,  and  nothing  ever  is.  𝐹𝑖𝑥 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓. 𝐹𝑖𝑥  𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟  𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠. 𝑁𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜  𝑖𝑡  𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. He follows his words to keep himself alive.</p><p>He blinks. Takeshi  coyly  toys  with  the  end of his   bandages  for  a  while.  He  probes   them roughly, close  to  touching  his  soaking  blood.  Afterwards,    he   abandons   the   thought    of stripping  them.   𝑌𝑜𝑢  𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡  𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑒  𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟  𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔. Takeshi wildly  laughs  at  his own  crisis — he  is  𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔,  𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔  𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒  𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡 longing for a blue pacifier to be placed on his  dry  lips. 𝐻𝑒  𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠  𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔  𝑝𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑.  𝐻𝑒  𝑖𝑠  𝑎 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔   𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛.  ( You  are  already  a  teenager, Takeshi.  When will you  mature. . . ? )  He  does not want to stop being a 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦. ( I just want to  be a kid forever. I want my playthings.  Give me my  sharky  teddy  bear. Give 𝐢𝐭 / 𝐡𝐞𝐫 back. )  He does not know what he truly wants to receive.</p><p>“I want to sleep.” When is the last time  he  was able   to   calmly  rest   without   𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦   blatantly teasing   him   due  to  his   𝑛𝑎𝑖𝑣𝑒  nature? ( You cannot escape us, Takeshi.  You are 𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔.  Stop the pretense.  You are 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 except naive. ) His   mother   and   father  are / were   fond   of saying   that   he  is  their   everything.   Takeshi shakes his head, his tiredness is overwhelming his senses.  The murk beneath his eyes are the signs  of  his deprivation. Consistently situated atop his woody  bedside  table  is  his constant remedy:  𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑠.  The   black-haired   male wonders if he  could  select  to  have  the lid of  the medicine agape so he could swallow every remaining   pill   and   appreciate   the   metallic flavor  on  his  tongue,  a  taste  similar  to  iron. The lethality  swiftly  becomes  an untouchable obsession   for   Takeshi.   𝑀𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑦,  𝑦𝑜𝑢  𝑎𝑟𝑒  𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟.  𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦,  I'll  have  𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐨  above  me. ( He  is never angelic. There is no crown dedicated for him. ) Overdosing himself seems tempting.</p><p>𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒚. 𝑷𝒂𝒑𝒂, 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆. 𝑴𝒂𝒎𝒂, 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒎𝒆. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟. </p><p>He  manages  to  control  his  deadly  whim. He needs  a  little  bit  of   𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞   to  finish  himself, Takeshi  decides.   Perhaps  he  might  do  it  in another   day  on a  different  place / room   and method. 𝐻𝑜𝑤  𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙.  He  chooses  to  have  his body exist and  carry  on, it  would  be  far  from difficult to kill his  weeping  physical  figure: too easy. His  mentality  is  buried  early.  He  would have  to prepare his timeless grave first  before proceeding to lapse or  come  to  his  end. 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒖𝒚  𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚'𝒔  𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆  𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔:  𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂, 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 — 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.</p><p>Ragazzino, sogni d'oro.<br/>
･━ 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘆, 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝘀.<br/>
Ragazzino, pensa a me.<br/>
･━ 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘆, 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗲.</p>
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